


The Best Laid Plans of a Legitimate Businessman

by Halberdier



Series: A Legitimate Businessman [6]
Category: Homestuck, Midnight Crew - Fandom, Problem Sleuth - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Gen, Intermission, Midnight Crew - Freeform, Stabdads, a legitimate businessman, legitimate businessman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:15:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halberdier/pseuds/Halberdier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So the day's almost here, the moment of truth, the final event, the big group party takedown of The Felt. The Midnight Crew's here. Team Sleuth is here. Patrick Sloan, Peter Inesco and "Ace" Dick Dunn sit down around the table with Jack Noir, Paolo Diamante, Clint Duccio and Hank Bachman to lay out their plans, say their peace, then head out their separate ways before the big heist. And prepare yourself, because we're introducing something you've never seen in A Legitimate Businessman before: CHAPTERS!!!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Meeting of the Minds

**Author's Note:**

> All right friends, welcome to Part 6! If you haven't read anything from A Legitimate Businessman before, go back and start with The Troubles of a Legitimate Businessman! Really what is wrong with you, readin' part six before reading the rest of it. If you have read everything up until this part, let me let you in on a couple brand new features of this installment. The first one of course is the title. This is the first title that is longer than six words. I might change that, I might not. I kind of like it. We'll see how things go. The second - and, depending on when you read this, the least or most obvious one - is the inclusion of chapters! That's right, instead of being a full short story from beginning to end, posted all at the same time, this little number right here is gonna have multiple parts! It's a little something we're trying out. If it goes well, you might just see it return for the next installment! Actually you'll see that even if it doesn't go well. Really that's been the plan from the outset. Consider everything previous to this as Act I. This would be Act II.

The air was thick, stuffy, and downright chilly, an unreasonable and unseasonable April night that seemed to bring a message to any gumbrained gumshoe who had the gumption to leave his front door: You go right the hell back inside, punk. But Patrick Sloan was certainly no mere punk, and here with him in a underground small room bathed in the light of a bare bulb, seated around the table, were the faces of six other such non-punks. Sloan took stock of each one of their tense-looking mugs. To his immediate left, the pile of brawn known as “Ace” Dick Dunn showered everyone with a constant barrage of scowls, and on his right, a usually impossibly tall Peter Inesco hunched over and fidgeted so quickly with his bowler hat that Sloan half-worried the friction might start a fire.

On the other side of the table, keeping its distance from the men in the filthy white coats, was the concentrated menace of the mobsters in the black hats – the Midnight Crew. Sloan burned the image of their faces into his retinas as well. Sitting on a barstool instead of a folding chair was probably the shortest mobster on earth, a spry but tiny middle-aged fellow named Clinton Duccio, who went by the moniker Deuce. Somehow wedged in next to him was the largest human Sloan had ever seen, the real muscle of the group, Heinrich Bachman, also known as Boxcars. Standing behind Deuce was the most terrifying poker face this side of the Mississippi, the second-in-command, the shark, the legend, Il Primo Numero Due, the one and only Diamonds Droog, whose real name – well, legal name anyhow – was Paolo Diamante. And in the middle of the whole group, the man of many names and just as many profanities, short-dark-and-homely, a real prickly customer with a stabby streak, the owner of basically two thirds of the city somehow, the biggest real estate magnate in the Western United States, the proprieter of three and a half of the best casinos in town, and the biggest disparity between arrests and convictions in California History, the legitimate businessman himself, Jose Vantas, AKA Jack Vantas, AKA Blackjack Vance, AKA Jack Noir, AKA Spades Slick, the boss of the Midnight Crew.

“So is anyone going to fucking say something or did we come here just to ogle each other because I swear to God I could be enjoying myself at the goddamn Norwegian ballet more than what's going on here,” Jack growled, expectorating across the table with each consonant.  
Sloan smirked at him and nodded to Diamante.

“Gentlemen,” the tall Italian began, moving around to stand at the table between the two factions, “tomorrow night, we take the first step to becoming the true kings of this town.” He opened a manilla folder and laid the contents on the table. “In this folder lie the names, photographs and identities of the known members of the criminal syndicate named The Felt. After tomorrow night, every last one of these cretins will be dead or permanently unemployed. After that we help these generous detectives take their shot at The DMK, who seems to be something of an up-and-comer these days. They scratch our back, we scratch theirs. But first, they gotta scratch our back, isn't that right, Mr. Sloan?”

“That's right, Mr. Diamante,” Patrick Sloan replied, standing up and walking to the side opposite Diamante. “We're ready to do what we gotta do, ain't we boys?”

Peter Inesco looked at his hands, spinning his hat as fast as he could. Ace just grumbled.

“I said, 'Ain't we, boys?'”

“Yes, I suppose,” Peter said quietly.

“Yeah, what of it,” Ace sighed.

“Excellent fellas, that's what I like to hear,” Patrick said.

“Fantastic,” Jack deadpanned. “Moving display of loyalty, gentlemen. I'm verklempt, really. Listen,” he continued, leaning in forward, “do any of you bozos have any idea what the hell we're up against? I'm sure you're all excited to take down the competition so we can step in and rule the city like fuckin' monkeylords, I'm sure that's what you're all here for, but do any of you pipsqueak hatfucks know the first thing about The Felt? About Lawrie English? Hell, do you even fuckin' know what he looks like?”

“You raise an excellent point, Boss,” Diamante said, leafing through the pages on the table.

“You're being awfully fuckin' deferential today,” Jack muttered.

“Merely trying to put my best foot forward in front of the greenhorns, Boss,” Diamante replied. “As I said, our employer raises an excellent point.”

“We heard you,” Dunn grunted.

“The appearance of Lawrie English is a matter of some ambiguity,” Diamante continued, unhindered. “The man has actually not been seen for a matter of some years. About eight years ago, an exploding bank nearby one of his pool halls injured him considerably. The official report states that his leg had to be amputated and that large portions of his face went missing and haven't turned up since.”

“Why did the bank explode?” Peter asked.

“Generally, I'd assume he might've been trying to rob the place, Pete,” said Sloan.

“Whatever the reason, he has since shunned the limelight, never out of doors during the day, never any proof of him being on the town during the night. Sightings here and there, but wounds of that magnitude would presumably leave any man disfigured for life. In any case, he doesn't look like this anymore.”

Diamante pulled out a few grainy photographs of a completely bald man – short, muscular, with a golden tooth and matching earring – not grinning at the grand opening of a pool hall, not looking placid in a mug shot, not smiling while throwing his arm around the shoulders of an older man. It was this last photograph that Diamante held up for further inspection.

“This older gentleman is the current public face for English and The Felt, a former surgeon named Dr. Vincent Schath. It's rumored he's probably the reason why English is still alive after the explosion. Supposedly was one of the most brilliant surgical minds the planet has ever seen.”

“So why's a surgeon running numbers for the Felt?” Dunn asked.

“Same reason why he's earned the nickname Vinny Shakes. It seems the good doctor developed a taste for certain medications at his former place of employment and was asked to...” he paused to find the right euphemism, “step down about a decade ago. Sources say he's clean now, but no hospital in their right mind is going to hire back a junkie and a thief. Shame we can't use the drugs to our advantage.”

“Yeah, shame we can't exploit a recovering man's addiction,” Sloan said, fixing a stare on Diamante. “Real shame we can't ruin his life again.”

Diamante raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Sloan, I do hope that you have nothing so amateur as pity brewing in your heart. I seem to recall that you agreed to help us 'Bring the heat down hard' if I remember your words correctly. I'd trust that nothing will keep you from delivering on that promise.”

“Of course not,” Sloan replied. “But I ain't gotta like it. And we ain't gotta do anything heinous. Just get in, get the job done, right?”

“Heinous?” Jack repeated. “Heinous? He deserves a hell of a lot more than anything that's fucking coming to him. Doc Schath is the fucking devil incarnate. Worst human being I've ever had the displeasure to not stab. Hell, if I had my way, Deuce woulda shoved a grenade down his throat and blew his head off years ago.”

“So why didn't he?” Sloan asked, still locked in a staring contest with Diamante.

“The fuck's that supposed to mean?” Jack spat.

Sloan finally broke eye contact and turned to face Jack. “Why ain't you ever made a move before? You obviously got no love for the guy. Or English. Or any of the Felt. So why are they still in business anyway?”

“That's none of your fucking business, you self-righteous twat!” Jack stood up, quite visibly and noisily seething and raking his knife across the table with each third word he spoke.

“Well I'd say it's all of my fucking business if I'm gonna be involved in this shit!”

“Then why the hell did you come?” Boxcars roared. “I've had just about enough--”

“You clam the fuck up, Mount St. Lardass!” Patrick shouted back.

“Patrick,” Peter said, attempting to calm his friend down.

“Hank,” Deuce said, attempting the same.

“All right, that's enough!” Dunn roared above everybody. The whole room stopped shouting and turned to look at him as his voice reverberated around the walls of the Crew's sewer hideout.

Sloan stared at him, mouth open. “I had no idea you could yell like that.”

“Are we fucking done waggling our dicks around?” Dunn continued, ignoring Sloan's comment. “Because I thought we came here to discuss the plan for our raid tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Sloan said. “We did.”

“Then let's all just sit the fuck down and talk about what the fuck we're gonna do, all right?” Dunn looked around the room. “All right? Anyone got a problem with that?”

“Not at all,” Diamante replied, as everyone else sat down. “Now then, gentlemen,” he continued, unrolling a blueprint. “Let's get to work.”


	2. The Lay of the Land

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I know what you're thinking. What's the actual plan here? Good question.

Even though the atmosphere was so tense that an elite squadron of specially trained shiatsu masseurs couldn't possibly make a dent, the meeting continued more or less without incident from that point. Gathered around the table with full attention, the two factions listened to Diamante and Sloan lay out the Great Green Overthrow. The operation would take roughly 4 hours: 2 hours for setup, and a maximum of 2 hours for execution.

At eleven o'clock PM on April 6, Peter Inesco (codename Skipper) and Paolo Diamante (codename Dignitary) would set up well outside the Felt Manor compound as snipers. Their positions would be northeast and southwest, respectively, in order to cover the greatest possible area between the two of them. Both Inesco and Diamante were crack shots, the best riflemen either had ever met, so they would be providing long range protection for whatever would be necessary: a quick escape, a bold assassination, anything. They'd be in contact with the group by radio, but if it came down to it, the two of them were left to make their own judgment calls about who lived and who died. Their task was also surveillance, and if the coast was clear after an hour, the snipers would give the go-ahead for Phase Two.

At twelve midnight, Richard Dunn (codename Corsair) and Heinrich Bachman (codename Brute) would get into position: mid-range on opposite corners northwest and southeast. As the strongest members of the combined Mobster-Detective Dream Team, they were natural choices for the heavy guns. Both would carry a large machine gun, built and modified from salvaged fighter plane ordnance. These two heavy guns could unleash unholy hell upon the mansion, tearing the place to bits when needed. They'd also aid Inesco and Diamante in providing cover fire for an escape, and Inesco and Diamante would watch their slow-moving backs in return.

“Anyone have a problem with that?” Sloan had asked. He turned to Dunn. “I know how much you enjoy leaving your life in someone else's hands. But it's how it's gotta be. You follow?”

“Yeah. I get it. Asshole.” Dunn grunted with deeply intestinal displeasure. “You don't gotta single me out or nothing, I'll do what I gotta. Get on with it.”

At twelve thirty, Patrick Sloan (codename Admiral) and Jose Vantas (codename Straggler) would be paired together, each wielding a Thompson submachine gun, a snub-nosed revolver, and a set of extra pointy knives for throwing and/or stabs – both being insistent upon that last bit. They'd get situated at the entrance of the building and about an eighth of a mile back. Theirs would be the trickiest part, the most dangerous deal for the dons and the dicks. They'd kick down the door, get in, find Vincent Schath before he could act, get a hold of him, then give the signal for the gunmen to make their move.

At that mark, they'd all engage. If things went well, the Felt would lay down their arms and surrender. But that wasn't terribly likely. The idea then would be to fight their way out, putting bullets in as many green-covered torsos as possible. If they couldn't get out, they'd then change up the plan and try to find out the whereabouts of Lawrence English and put a bullet in his skull.

Clinton Duccio (aka Droll) would have his signature explosives rigged up around the property, ready to blow if things went fully south. It was either all or nothing for these cats, and when they got set, they'd sure as shrapnel get set. Once all this was aligned, the board would be laid out and ready for opening roll. The stage would be set up and draped with the red curtain. The orchestra would be watching for raise of the conductor's baton. The note that desolation plays would be the funeral dirge for Lawrence English, Vincent Schath, and the ragtag band in the green suits called The Felt.

“There is one thing,” Diamante added, “that you should understand. There are fifteen underlings. You are free to do whatever you like to any of them, save for one. Isn't that right, Boss?”

“That's right,” Jack said slowly, narrowing his eyes at Diamante. “Number Eight,” he continued, turning back to the detectives across from him, “is Lucrettia Snow, aka Snowman. You don't touch her. No matter what.”

“And why's that, Mr. Noir?” Sloan asked. “Diamante mentioned this to me at our previous meeting. Anything I should know?”

“No, there isn't.” Jack leaned over the table, his menace leaning even further. “No questions. You just don't touch the Snowman. _Capisci_?”

“Fine,” Sloan said. “We capeesh, don't we boys?”

“Fine,” said Ace, grunting and looking down at his watch.

“That's fine,” said Peter, who hadn't made eye contact with anyone the entire evening.

“Excellent,” Diamante said. “Well then, gentlemen, meet at Jack's office at twenty-two-fifteen tomorrow evening. Until then, tonight and tomorrow are yours to do with as you please. If you like,” he continued, taking out a rather large bill clip, “I can show my appreciation for your services with an advance.” He tossed three piles of fifty-dollar bills on the table. “If you have a family, enjoy the pleasure of their company. If they don't, enjoy the pleasure of your own.” He walked over to the recently reinforced hideout door and opened it. “Until tomorrow,” he said, tipping his hat, “have yourselves a pleasant evening.”


	3. The Buying of the Beef

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *SPOILER ALERT* "Ace" Dunn says some words, buys some things, then heads home.

 Richard Dunn wasn't proud of himself. He had wanted to refuse the mobster's money. Leave in a huff. Let everyone in that room know that he was not a man to be bought and sold. Principles, that's what he wanted them to know. He was a man with principles.

But he was also a man with a family. A man who didn't know how much longer he'd be able to spend with that family. A man who had done his best to provide for that family, and if he ended up kicking the bucket tomorrow, he was a man who didn't want his last thoughts to be remembering that he didn't leave them much.

So when his best friend Peter Inesco had his back turned, doing the honorable thing and leaving without a word, Dunn swiped Diamante's money off the table and stuffed the bills in his shirt as fast and as quiet as he could. He cared what Pete thought of him. Pete was the smartest and kindest guy he knew. Dunn himself didn't particularly think himself a smart guy, but Pete always inspired him to at least be the nicest guy he could. Honorable too. But circumstances said otherwise this time. Honor was nothing next to the safety of his wife and kid.

He felt so guilty after taking the money that he couldn't bring himself to argue when Pete refused his offer to come to dinner.

“I... I had better not, Richard,” Pete had said.

“You sure?” Dunn had responded half-heartedly. “You know they love ya.”

“I know, but...” Peter trailed off, watching a car pass by.

“Pete.”

“Sorry. Right.” He turned back to Dunn. “You'd best be alone with your family. It should be a private evening, just the three of you. I wouldn't want to intrude on that.”

“I gotcha, Pete.” Dunn put his hand on Peter's shoulder. He had to reach up pretty far. “You take it easy tonight. Try to enjoy yourself.” Dunn smiled wearily. He could see the nervousness in Peter's face. “Loosen up. Have some drinks. Hell, find a girl, take her dancing. Just have a good one, all right?”

Peter looked down and bit his lower lip. “All... All right. I'll try, Richard.”

Dunn clapped his shoulder. “How many times I gotta tell ya, Pete? Call me Ace.”

“All right, Ace,” Peter said with a nervous smile.

“Attaboy,” Dunn said, straightening his own jacket. “I'll see you tomorrow. Feel free to stop by if you need anything.”

The two walked down the street in opposite directions for a few seconds. Dunn had a thought, and turned around.

“And Pete?” he called back.

Peter stopped and turned around.

“You run into Pat,” Dunn began, pausing a moment to think of his next words. “You run into Pat, go easy on him.” No reply. “I mean he's an asshole and this is shit, but go easy on him.”

Peter had looked at Dunn for about a half a minute or so. Then they both turned at the same time and headed on their ways.

On the way home, Dunn stopped at Makara's, the late night grocer. He bought a couple of sirloin cuts, along with a bundle of asparagus, a loaf of French bread, and a huge bouquet of roses. He then popped into a phone booth on the way back to tell his wife he was heading home with dinner and she should light up the grill. Richard Dunn hung up and smiled sadly to himself. If this was their last meal together, the least they could do is enjoy it.


	4. The Wandering of the Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What brought Peter Inesco here? What happenstance has led him to this life? What is making the drains overflow? What happened to that stop sign? Oh, I'm sorry. I got distracted. Here's the next chapter.

A small part of Peter Inesco's thoughts touched upon the curiosity of what caused the afternoon's rain to remain in pools around the storm drains even during the evening, what it was that kept them from emptying completely, but he decided he had had enough of poking around sewers to quite last him a lifetime, thank you, and rather than engage in more unpleasantness just to find out, he pulled his hat lower over his ears and pressed on through the blustery streets. What an evening. It was supposed to be spring, but nobody had told that the wind. _T. S. Eliot was right_ , Peter thought. _April really is the cruelest month_.

Peter wandered the streets without direction, more anxious than he could ever remember being, and that was quite a statement for him. Anxiety colored his life at almost every moment, even back before he dropped out of the police academy. He had dreamed of being a police detective as a young boy, but he rather quickly learned that the police were not in the business of granting dreams. Even though he scored incredibly high in both intelligence and marksmanship, he was ultimately failed from the academy. The official report of his dismissal read that he did not perform well under pressure and that if he could not control his attention during classes and training than it stood to reason that he would not be able to control his attention out in the field. They also felt - and this was not in the official report, but they made sure to tell him anyway - that the way he would maintain eye contact when daydreaming was incredibly disconcerting.

When it came down to it, the academy decided, Peter Inesco was just not a good fit for the police department. Peter was heartbroken, but a friend of his, a man by the name of Richard Dunn, was quick to change his mind. It wasn't that he would be bad for the police force, Richard said, it was that the police force would be bad for him. See, the way Richard saw it, Pete had the kind of brain that worked differently from those stiffnecks over at the PD, and they'd never really let a guy like Pete really stretch his wings, metaphorically speaking of course. Sure, sometimes he let his mind wander a bit, and that was something of a pain in the ass of course, but Pete had a way of looking at a problem that was really something else, and wouldn't he think maybe he'd be a hell of a private eye? At least that was Richard's point of view.

And even now, walking down a windy city street with a sense of dread, he couldn't really disagree with that. Peter was a fantastic detective. As long as Richard handled the practical aspects of the investigation business – and Richard was an exceedingly practical man – Peter had never felt more at home than he did as a hired inspector. As a PI, he felt both the certainty of justice along with the freedom to follow his own methods. The world opened itself up to him like a puzzle, and everywhere were pieces that constantly turned themselves around in his head until they fit together. Solving puzzles was more than just second nature to Peter; it was his primary state of being. Being a detective worked well for him. And that was why he was so terrified of partnering with the Midnight Crew, he thought with a shiver only partly caused by the unseasonable chill. For the first time since he became a detective, he knew that he was doing something deeply wrong.

His worry was so complete that he only came to attention when a hand grabbed his arm and yanked him back, out of the way of a truck that he hadn't seen coming.

“Easy there, Pete,” came the voice associated with that arm.

Shaken from the near miss, he wheeled around to face his perceived assailant, only to realize he hadn't been assailed at all. “Patrick,” he said softly.

Staring up at his face was Patrick Sloan, an older man who had been a detective for a few years more than him. He was a good detective – a smooth negotiator, though Peter felt he could be thoroughly impolite – and while his methods occasionally left a bad taste in his mouth, Peter could not argue with Sloan's results. The sleuthing business took all sorts of different types, and Peter certainly envied Sloan's confidence and resolve. Maybe if Peter had been more like Patrick, he thought from time to time, he'd have made it on the force. But he wasn't sure he wanted to be like Patrick now. It was Patrick Sloan who had gotten him into this mess.

“Watch where you're going from now on, all right?” his friend said, brushing non-existent dust from Peter's jacket. “If you get hit by a truck, who's going to save my skin when things get tough?” Sloan smiled up at him. “Saw you wandering all lonely like this from across the street, figured you could use some company. Probably got a lot on that big ol' brain of yours, I bet.”

Sloan looked down the street. Peter followed his gaze, not sure what he was looking at. Was it the vandalized stop sign? Someone had spraypainted some markings under the word STOP that slightly obscured the writing. That could be a problem. What if someone didn't see the writing? Though surely enough people were familiar with the shape and meaning of a stop sign that it was not a terrible issue. But the spraypainter had also dented one of the sign's corners. That changed the shape. Or was it someone else who had dented it? It looked to have been done with the ball peen of a hammer. Would someone with a hammer also spraypaint things as well? Did vandals usually carry both? He'd have to find one to ask. He started plotting out options for where he might get in touch with a vandal.

“Pete,” Sloan said firmly, bringing his attention back to the here and now. “Pete I asked you a question.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Peter stammered, embarrassed. “What was it?”

“You're always three thousand miles away,” Sloan said with an affectionate smile. “Sometimes I wonder if even God knows what you're thinking. I asked where Dick was. I'd have assumed you'd be with him like usual.”

“Richard is at home with his wife and son.”

“Yeah, I don't blame him,” Sloan said. “If I had a family I'd wanna spend tonight with them too. Still, I'm surprised he didn't invite you to have dinner with them.”

Peter looked down at his hands and played with his fingers. “He did, but I thought it best not to intrude.”

“Yeah, that's a good idea. Fella's gotta have some quality time alone with them, I'd suppose.” Sloan looked up at the taller man. “But you and me, guys like us, we gotta stick together, right?”

Peter opened his mouth to answer.

“Come on, lemme buy you a drink,” Sloan interrupted. “I know a great place, you'll love it. Dame that works there's crazy about me.”


	5. The Knowing of the Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack Noir reads a book. Shocking, I know.

Jack Noir was not enjoying his evening.

Granted, Jack Noir did not enjoy most evenings. Sure, he enjoyed a good heist, if it went right of course, after all, who wouldn't? He enjoyed a nice steak dinner – the best of them were tender, juicy, rare as hell, with steak on the side and a dessert of more steak. He also frequently enjoyed stabbing people, since it allowed him to both let off some steam as well as get either information or corpses from his enemies. These were all good things, the finer points of life. Simple pleasures were the best kind of pleasures, Jack always said, and no pleasures were simpler than stealing, steak and stabs. But as for evenings that did not entail these things? Generally, these were not evenings he'd enjoy. And this evening, like so many other unfortunate evenings, did not include such pleasures.

But it wasn't just the lack of meat, murder and mugging that put a bee in Jack's boxers. Rather, the evening coming up seeped its unpleasantness into this evening as well. Jack was having difficulties wrapping his head around it, and he sat in his study trying to puzzle things out.

What the hell was he doing? He was about to lead the officers of his gang, along with an untested entourage of dickholes that he couldn't stand to see breathe much less follow his orders, in a raid against his biggest enemy in town. That last bit didn't sound so bad, Jack thought, scratching his nose in a way that would have turned the stomach of anyone watching, had anyone been watching at all, which he was pretty sure they weren't, but hey, it wasn't his job to look good. But yeah, when he put it that way, that last bit didn't sound so bad, he thought again. Looking at it from that standpoint, he could see a certain appeal. Lawrie English would be put out of business. The Felt would be run out of town. Nobody'd be giving him shit when it came to turf. He wouldn't have to make sure someone else hadn't scheduled a bank robbery on the same night as him. He wouldn't have to worry about one of the larger green guys trying to use Deuce as a bowling ball. Hell, from that angle, tomorrow evening almost looked fucking attractive, Jack thought. Maybe this wasn't so bad after all.

Jack looked around his study for something to ease his mind. His eyes swept over the books stacked from floor to ceiling – lovely, leatherbound copies of indispensable classics and every reference text imagineable. They were kept in the kind of condition a collector would commit infanticide to have; it was like they'd never been touched. That was mostly because they never were. Sloan wasn't wrong when he said Jack didn't seem like the reading type. But maybe, Jack thought, the volumes of knowledge on these shelves held some wisdom for him. At the very least, maybe one of them held a picture of a boob or something.

He stood up and walked over to the shelves, trying to figure out where to start. He liked the letter S – it was cold, sibilant, like air let out of the tires when you slash them – so he decided he'd start somewhere in there and maybe find something that'd strike his fancy. Smith, Adam: _The Wealth of Nations_. That didn't seem immediately relevant, though he was always interested in both wealth and nations, so he might come back to it if he had to. Steinbeck, John: _The Grapes of Wrath_. Jack didn't mind grapes – especially pressed and fermented and stuck in a bottle – and he certainly was a big fan of wrath (Why didn't anyone tell him books were about awesome things?), but he didn't think his attack would involve booze, so he moved onto the next one. Same author, Steinbeck, John: _Of Mice and Men_. Well that sounded terrible. That was a classic? What, some dudes hanging around with a couple little rat things? Terrible. Nothing in that book would ever relate here. Next.

As he kept looking, he stumbled across Sun Tzu: _The Art of War_. That, more than anything, certainly seemed relevant to the situation at hand. He pulled it off the shelf, the crack of leather unsticking from leather was loud enough to wake the Scottish terrier sleeping in the corner of his study, and opened the book. The introduction said some things about who the hell Sun Tzu was. Chinese general of some sort. Could turn any group of anybodies into an army.

“Ancient Chinese wisdom, hey?” Jack said to nobody in particular. “Now we're talking.”

He opened to a passage at random: _The rule is not to besiege walled cities if one can help it_

Did Felt Manor count as a walled city? Maybe he had to take these in the sense of what they would mean today? Did that mean he shouldn't attack Felt Manor? Or that he should? It didn't have a wall. It wasn't a city. Whatever, Jack thought, shit like that doesn't matter. He didn't need to know when not to do battle; he was going to fucking do battle whether it was right or not. He needed to know how to win.

He flipped a couple pages in either direction and settled upon a longer section. It went something like this:

_If you know the enemy and know yourself,_

_you need not fear the result of a hundred battles._

_If you know yourself but not the enemy,_

_for every victory gained, you will also suffer a defeat._

_If you know neither the enemy nor yourself,_

_you will succumb in every battle._

That gave Jack a moment's pause. _Know the enemy and know yourself_. Did Jack know the enemy? Hell, he'd done business with them enough. The legitimate kind of business, even. And of course, the shady kind of business, that was a given. And yes, the givin-em-the-business kind of business. But how much did he really know them? He hadn't seen English since the accident, but he still knew that he was really in charge. Schath was just a puppet, even if he was damn good at looking like he was the boss. Still, Schath was always a hell of a lot smarter than English. A hell of a lot smarter than most. He'd been good enough to give the Crew a reason to not want to attack.

The deal they had was comfortable, if perhaps a little itchy around the collar. They negotiated a nice 30/70 share of the entertainment market – Jack and his Crew taking the 70, of course – and in return, the two gangs agreed to a permanent cease-fire so that they could work together keeping the police from sniffing around the wrong places. Intelligent, wealthy, and influential The Midnight Crew took care of the higher ups. Jack paid off the judges in town on a regular basis, as well as donating a quarterly bonus to every member of the police department; Paolo Diamante was in bed both literally and metaphorically with the police commissioner, so that base was well and truly covered; Clint Duccio played cards weekly with the mayor, the sheriff and the sheriff's deputies; and Hank Bachman was a big, scary motherfucker. As for The Felt, well, their extensive manpower and far more rough-and-tumble family culture made them ideal for taking care of any corporals or detectives who felt their civic duty burned more heavily than the extra money slipped in their pockets.

So why was Diamante so willing to sacrifice that for the sake of three private dickweeds? Surely it wasn't out of the goodness of his heart, Jack thought. Diamonds Droog didn't particularly have that much kindness in his heart. His feelings toward Jack were more out of a sense of business loyalty bred out of shared experience. Droog wouldn't turn on him, he knew, but only because Droog owed him a debt. Paolo Diamante was faithful, but Jack was under no particular delusion that the Italian actually _liked_ him. The only person that Diamante even liked was his daughter. So it sure wasn't because Patrick Sloan had charmed his way into Diamante's heart.

Maybe Droog was worried about Sloan's stories about The DMK? That almost made Jack laugh. This was utter bullshit. Jack had never heard of no DMK, and he ran this town. There was no way word of a new mob upstart wouldn't have found its way to Jack's desk. Patrick Sloan had to be the worst detective this side of a magnifying glass in order to believe that shit. Either someone was pulling Sloan's pantleg, or some serial murderer had a grudge against Sloan and a real wiseass sense of humor. Jack could get behind that. Almost didn't want to hurt the guy, whoever he was. But someone was committing unsanctioned murders in his town – this was true and it couldn't be ignored. But why did Droog have such an interest in this?

 _Know the enemy and know yourself_.

How much did Jack know the enemy? How much did Jack know himself?


	6. The Entering of the Bar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Inesco and Patrick Sloan go to one of Patrick's favorite watering holes, where they meet an old friend of his.

 After a good twenty minutes of silent walking, collars turned up against the wind that howled in Peter Inesco's ears like a pack of enraged weasels, the two detectives came to a small pub wedged between two larger buildings. A sign was affixed to the door, sporting a rather lengthy inscription: _Donnelly's Olde-Time Tried And True_ , it began. _Genuine And Delicious Food And Drink Served Up Quick_ , it continued without break. _Brought To You Straight From Dear Old Dublin Town,_ it finally concluded _._

Patrick Sloan grinned as Peter read the sign. “Hell of a mouthful, ain't it? Mostly we call this place Donnelly's.” He opened the door. “Come on in, it'll be warmer.”

Peter entered the building behind Sloan. The two of them took off their hats and jackets and started to hang them on the coat rack at the entrance when Peter felt a pair of eyes lock onto the back of his unkempt hair like the kind of sniper rifle that wouldn't be invented for another twenty years or so.

“None of that, none of that!” a high, loud, and distinctly Irish voice rang out. Peter turned to see the intimidatingly feminine bartender advancing on them, short, stout, and steaming with unbridled rage. “Get out of here at once!”

Peter quickly started to retrieve his coat and hat, but Sloan grabbed his shoulder gently.

“Henny, doll, I was hoping you'd be working tonight!”

“Oh, can the sweet talk, Paddy, it don't work round here,” she said, swinging around an empty wine bottle with one hand like an overenthusiastic conductor leading an ensemble of unruly kindergarteners. “Out, out you filthy bastard, out! Not you, dear, you can stay,” she added sweetly to Peter, who quite felt it was time to take his leave. “But you,” she continued, her voice sharp again, “you can go out the door or I'll call the police!”

Sloan grinned easily, a feat that Peter could not fathom. “Henrietta, sweetie, come on, you wouldn't start a scene in front of my friend here, would you? Don't you want to make a good first impression?”

“A friend, eh?” Henrietta looked Peter up and down. “Let me give you some advice, friend. Stay away from this lying bastard.” She turned back to Sloan. “I hope you weren't expecting him to cover your bill, Paddy, because unless he's Franky Sinatra I don't think he's got the money.”

“If this is a bad time,” Peter murmured as assertively as possible, which wasn't very much, “Patrick, I think we should go.”

“Relax, Pete. I don't think Henny could bear to let a couple of good-looking guys like us out of her sight.” Sloan pulled a clip of 50-dollar bills from his pocket. “You'd really cast our pretty faces out on the street? Very well, doll, if money's all you care about, don't worry, I've got you covered. I came here for two reasons. First, to pay my bill,” he said, handing the befuddled barmaid $150, “and second, to soothe my thirst with a drink and my soul with your loveliness. Whattaya say, Pete? Shall we find ourselves a place at the bar?”

Sloan dragged Peter to the largely unoccupied bar, leaving Henrietta with a slackjawed expression that quickly turned back to anger. “And where did you find this kind of money, hm?” she asked, storming back to the bar. “Last I heard, you hadn't had an honest job in months!”

“An advance from a recent client,” Sloan said. “Mind if I take a look at your menu?”

“Y'know damn well what we serve here,” Henrietta snapped. “Recent client my arse! I thought nobody'd hire you because you were bad luck, or some nonsense like that. I'd sooner believe you stuck up a bank with that much money out of nowhere. Where'd you get a client these days?”

“More of a business partner than a client, really, you don't need to know who” Sloan said with a wave of his hand. “It's pretty boring, technical stuff, sweetie. I wouldn't want to worry your pretty head with it. But if you don't want the money, I'd be happy to take it back.”

“Money's money, no matter how dirty,” she said. “And don't give me that 'boring technical' flap as if I wouldn't understand. Who do you think's gonna run this place when dear old Pa's gone? I know how to run a business, Mr. Big Detective Sir, much better than you, and speaking of _whom_ ,” she went on, drawing out the word distinctly, “you're lucky Pa's not here because he'd haul down the shotgun and stick it up your nostrils for botherin' his sweet baby girl and don't you even pause to think for a moment I'd lift a finger to make him stop.

“Now what'll it be?” she asked Sloan, slamming two glasses on the bar. “And what would you like, dear?” she asked Peter much more gently. “I'm Henrietta Donnelly, by the way, and I run this place wi' me father – started it as soon as he got off the boat 20 years ago when I was just a tyke, and we been home to the best classic Irish hospitality this side of the Pond ever since. And you are?”

Peter, who had been observing the previous exchange with no small measure of apprehension, finally found his voice. “Peter Inesco, Miss Donnelly,” he replied shakily. “And I am not sure. What would you recommend?”

“Whiskey,” Henrietta and Sloan said at the same time.

“In fact,” Sloan added to Henrietta, sliding another fifty across the bar, “give us both the best you've got.”

Henrietta narrowed her eyes at him, but smiled underneath them. “Coming right up.”

Sloan watched her pour the first drink and grinned at her. “It's nice to see you, sweetheart.” It was one of the few times Peter had seen him grin with a genuine warmth.

Henrietta poured the second drink, trying and failing to stifle a grin of her own. “It's nice to see you too, you horse's arse.” She placed the drinks in front of them, then stabbed a finger in the air between Sloan's eyes. “Don't get used to it.”


	7. The Reading of the Terms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack makes nice with his kid.

“Don't forget okay? All right, you'll bring those down tomorrow? First thing in the morning? Beautiful,” Jack said into the phone receiver, much more pleasantly than some phone calls but still unavoidably raspy. “Beautiful, you're a doll. Oh, one last thing, Moll. Okay, in my office, next to the door, on the right, there's a big painting of a boat, right? All right so behind that painting there's a wall safe. I want you to go open it right now; the combination is 4-13-6-12. Yeah I'll hang on.”

He drummed his fingers on the desk, chewing a pen, nervously glancing over at the open copy of _The Art of War_ sitting face up, largely unread, on his desk. “Yeah I'm here. You got it open? Ah, good, great, wonderful. It's yours. No, that's all yours. Early birthday gift. Well, for being such a great secretary.

“Listen, though. I got one condition,” he said, his voice getting quieter. “You use that money to go take a trip to the Bahamas. Well not the Bahamas, per-se, but somewhere. Somewhere far away. Yeah, go for the Bahamas. Oh yeah, real nice this time of year. Just head out tomorrow, I've already made arrangements with my private jet. Yes, you get to use the private jet. What kind of boss would I be? Well I don't know about that. But I just wanted to thank you for all of your hard work. You're the cat's, Molly. A doll and a half, that's for sure. Well, it's no big deal. Feelin' generous, I guess. All right, I'll let you go for now. Don't forget to bring those papers by tomorrow, okay? Okay. Thanks toots.”

Jack hung up the phone and rubbed his temples. If anything went wrong tomorrow, at least Molly Painter would be safe in the Bahamas with a shit ton of money to boot. The woman was beautiful, not to mention the best secretary he'd ever had. He couldn't put her in harm's way. If English got his hands on her... well, it wasn't something anyone wanted to think about.

He sighed and absently played with the pages of the book. Sitting here for a half hour wasn't getting him very far. Besides, he needed to take care of things. As a man without a last will and testament, there was a hell of a lot to do on a night before he was pretty sure he might end up dead. Funny how death puts some perspective in a man, Jack thought. Lots to do, and once he died there'd be no time at all. Couldn't put anything off any longer.

There was one last thing he needed to take care of. He stood up, taking the book with him, just in case. If things went well, who knows? Maybe he'd be able to get more time with this book tonight. It seemed to have a few good ideas in it.

Before that, however, Jack had to tie up some loose ends with another particular person of interest. And this one would probably be a much less pleasant experience. But it was something he needed to do. He swallowed his pride and his chewing gum and he walked down the hall, coming to a certain bedroom door. Jack clenched his fist slowly and knocked. “Carter, you in there?”

The reply was immediate and angry. “THAT'S NOT MY FUCKING NAME, SHITWAD!”

“You speak to your father that way?!” Jack shouted back.

“YOU'RE NOT MY REAL DAD!”

Jack took a deep pre-shout breath, but then he stopped himself, bit his tongue – literally bit it! it hurt and everything! - and tried to calm down. He came here for a reason, after all, and it wasn't to get into another shouting match. He started again.

“Karkat,” he said much more softly. “You in there? I need to talk to you.”

The door opened just a crack. A single eye peeked up from chest level through a thick wad of black hair. “What do you want, Jack?”

Jack looked down into the eye. “Can I come in? There's a lot I need to talk about.”

The door closed for a moment, and Jack heard the sound of paper, clothing, CD cases and more being unceremoniously shoved about. The door opened again, and Jack's adopted son shrugged his shoulders and plopped onto his bed, facing the wall.

Jack followed behind, closing the door partway behind him. He sat down on the bed a good three feet from the boy. “So um,” he began.

The icebreaker was met with silence from the back of Karkat's head.

“Did you um, did you do your homework tonight?”

“It's spring break.”

“Right,” Jack said, desperately wishing he was anywhere else. How the hell was this supposed to work? Jack looked around the room, trying to find something to talk about. His eyes fell upon a book, which he picked up. “Hardy Boys, huh? More detectives. You read this?”

Karkat still wouldn't turn around. “Sometimes.”

“I heard about these books,” Jack said. “Knew some kids a ways back who'd read these. Can't believe they're still around.”

More silence.

“I mean I never read them, 'course,” he said. “Never really got the hang of reading myself.”

Karkat snorted.

“No, hey, don't give me that shit, kid,” Jack said angrily. “It's just that...” He trailed off, calming down. “It's just that I never got the hang of words. Give me some numbers and I can make 'em do anything. But words? Forget about it.”

Karkat turned a quarter of the way toward Jack. “Reading's easy.”

“Heh, maybe for you,” Jack said. “You're the whiz kid. But for me, I dunno. Reading kinda takes a long time for me. I mean I just did the most reading I've done all year, maybe three eighths of a page, and it took me fifteen minutes. It's like I gotta focus real hard on each word to see it. I ain't proud of that; it's a damn shame. Weakness. But that's why I don't read. You're the only one that knows that now, kid.”

Karkat turned around the rest of the way. “Then why'd you tell me?”

Jack couldn't look Karkat in the eye. “Because you're family.”

“No I'm not.”

“No, I get that,” Jack said. He took a deep breath. “I'm not good at family. It wasn't exactly a thing I've ever had, leastaways not for any one long, extended period of time. My mother died before I could remember, and my pops never gave me an answer as to how. Hell, Pops never gave me much of anything, 'cept for a taste for booze and my name. Never really liked being called José Vantas either. Sounds all professional and shit, but I don't let anyone who knows me call me it.”

Karkat stared at him.

“Figured that's what a father does, you know? Give the kid a name he hates and then do jack-shit-all. I guess I always hated fathers, figured why should you be the same?”

“Then why the fuck did you adopt me?” Karkat asked. “You hate being a dad so much, why the unholy shit-tits do you make me call you that?”

“Christ, kid. Where'd you learn to curse like that?”

“I learned it from watching you,” Karkat answered, looking away.

“Heh, at least I taught you something.” Jack flipped the pages of the book. “Because I'm a bad guy, I guess. I don't fucking know. It seemed like a good idea at the time – have a son. Make the business name work. People'd been asking about it. Reporters and shit. And I didn't want the hassle of making a fresh one, so I figured some wiggling turd from anywhere needed a home.”

Karkat whipped his head around to glare at him.

“Look, that was a shitty way of putting it,” Jack said, palms in the air. “Ain't proud of that. There's a lot of things I ain't proud of. And one of them is I ain't proud of the shitty kind of father I've been. I fucked up your life pretty hard, and I want to try and make it right.”

Karkat blinked under the untamed foliage that covered his head. “How?”

“Well for starters,” Jack said, “you keep your name. I called Miss Painter tonight. She's writing up change-of-name forms. Taking them down to the county clerk's office first thing in the morning. You won't be Carter anymore; you'll be back to Karkat in the eyes of the law. Figured it's only fair.”

Karkat hung his mouth open a tiny bit. “You're shitting me.”

“No shit. We're doing this for real. I'm turning over a new leaf, and I'm going to listen to the things you say. You're thirteen, kid. You're practically a man now. And you'll be a better man than I ever was. Figured least I could do is let you be a man under your own terms.”

The boy searched his face. “Why now?”

“Because I haven't been good to you, kid. And this is my last chance. You know what I do, right kid?”

“You own buildings.”

“Do you know what else I do?”

“Well,” Karkat said, choosing his words carefully. “I think you might be... kind of... in the mob.”

“Damn, you're a smart kid,” Jack laughed. “Got right to the point. I'm not gonna ask how you figured that out. Probably for the best if I don't know. But yeah, I'm kind of in the mob. Kind of lead it. Well a faction. It's complicated business, Karkat. But the point is that it's what I do. I'm damn good at it too, just like I'm damn good with the buildings. Only problem is sometimes, in a business like this, it doesn't matter how good you are. Sometimes things just come up. And something's come up, kiddo. Something big. And I'm not sure just if I'm gonna make it out in one piece. So I figured I should try to make good, just in case this is the last chance I get. And if it isn't? Well, I guess I just get to be a better father. How's that sound?”

Karkat was silent for a while. “What are you saying?”

Jack looked Karkat in the eye. “Look, you know what I'm saying. I'm saying that there's a good chance I'm gonna die tomorrow. And I don't want to leave my house and business to a kid I treated like crap. So I guess I gotta stop treating you like crap, because you're getting this place when I'm done with it.”

The boy didn't say anything for a very, very long time before speaking again. “I'm in your will?”

“Well, to be honest, I don't have one. I'd write one tonight but... hell, writing's worse than reading.”

“I could help,” Karkat said quietly.

“Well, in a bit,” Jack said. “There's a couple things I gotta say first. One, I'm proud of you. Proud of the genius you're becoming. You're doing great in school, you're reading all these books, and you definitely don't take my shit, which is the sign of a smart guy to begin with.”

Karkat looked down and blushed, darkening his already dark brown cheeks. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

Jack smiled. The kid wasn't usually this quiet. “Two, I'd like to ask a favor. Before we do the will thing, I mean.”

“What's that?”

“Well, I've got this book here,” Jack started, holding out the copy of The Art of War. “And I wanna read it but... hell, I can't.” He looked Karkat in the eye. “But you can. You can read anything. I want you to...” he looked down, embarrassed. “I want you to read it to me. I figure if I can trust anyone to do that, it's you.”

Karkat scanned his eyes all over Jack's face, down Jack's arms and across the book in Jack's hands. “ _The Art of War_?”

“Yeah, it's this book. Written by some Chinese general, way back in the day or something. All about doing things right I guess? I'm not sure yet. Didn't get very far. You should read more for me.”

Karkat took the book in his hands, running his palm over the leather cover. “This is a fucking nice book,” he cursed quietly. “Is this from your study?”

“Sure is. Whole library full of books like this. You want any of them? They're yours. Just as much as they're mine.” Jack laughed bitterly. “Probably even more so, considering. Wanna take a look through that one and tell me about it?”

“Well, I mean...” Karkat opened it. “You sure it's okay?”

“Yeah, kid. It's fine.” Jack locked eyes with him. “Just don't tell anyone your old man needs a kid to read to him, okay?”

“You fucking got it, Dad,” Karkat said with half of a smile. He turned to the first page. “All right, let's get this shit on the road. Part one: Laying plans. _The art of war is of vital importance to the state. It is a matter of life and death..._ ”


	8. The Airing of the Grievances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Inesco and Patrick Sloan have a long heart to heart about the ethics of their situation.

Peter Inesco sat quietly, turning over numerous thoughts in his mind while Patrick Sloan continued to flirt with the bartender – if the mutual antagonism could be considered flirting and not outright hostility, though there seemed to be some level of implied meaning that Peter could not fully grasp, so he wondered if perhaps it could be some manner of sexual tension. Which was all well and good, Peter supposed, if not particularly the sort of relationship Peter would look for. The only problem with that, he worried, was that the way Henrietta Donnelly dug into Sloan and the dry responses Sloan fired back reminded him uncomfortably of how Sloan talked to people like Jack Vantas. If this was a friend of Sloan's, what did that make Vantas? Or perhaps Sloan lived all his relationships like this. In that case Sloan must pull his punches – so to speak – an awful lot with Peter, he figured.  
  
But here Peter was, getting off on a tangent, avoiding the situation at hand. He had to stop thinking and start talking. Mustering all of his courage and staring resolutely into his drink, Peter raised his voice to interrupt the conversation.  
  
“Miss Donnelly,” he started.  
  
“It's Henrietta, dearie. I'm just a bartender.”  
  
“Henr-- Miss Donnelly,” Peter continued, not making eye contact, “I... I hate to be rude, but I wonder if... if...”  
  
“Spit it out, boy-o. You've no cause to hold back.”  
  
“I wonder if I might have a private word with Mr. Sloan for a few moments,” he finally said. “If it's not too much trouble, I mean. I don't mean to say that you're not--”  
  
“Easy, sweetie, easy,” she laughed. “Don't you trouble yourself, you're not being rude. Aside,” she said, picking up a dishrag from the counter, “I've other customers apart from you lot.”  
  
“Like who?” Sloan said, looking around at the empty bar and empty tables. “I ain't seen a bar this quiet since I slapped a pair of handcuffs on the lousy swindler 'Zoo' Sal Portland in the middle of lunch.”  
  
“I heard about that,” Henrietta said. “Seems to me some people were saying you killed him.”  
  
“I didn't kill Sal,” Sloan said, pointing defensively at her. “But I didn't exactly slap his back when the surprise from the arrest made him choke on his hamsteak.”  
  
“You should have let him finish, Patrick,” Peter said quietly, mortified at the thought.  
  
“Well, he'd just got done conning some poor grandmother out of her life savings. I'd say it was an inappropriate time for ham.”  
  
“Patrick, please, I need to talk to you,” said Peter.  
  
“Right, right, go check on your fictional customers, Henny. Pete and I will hold down the fort.”  
  
“Fictional nothing, you looby. I mean the young lady who's renting the upstairs room. Nadine Beaumont, lovely little thing, fresh off the boat. Poor dear's fretting her pretty head off – all alone in a new country, no family with her, can't be hardly past adult yet. It's a wonder she's made it this far without fainting all over the place. I'll be back though,” she added, pointing a finger straight in Sloan's face, “so don't try anything funny, you got that?” Henrietta walked around the bar and punched Sloan on the arm. “You just watch yourself, Mister.” She turned and curtsied at Peter. “Let me know if you need anything, sailor.”  
  
Peter stared straight down into his whiskey. “Sailor?” he asked himself softly.  
  
“Term of endearment, Pete,” Sloan said. “She throws them around all the time. Why, don't wanna be a sailor?”  
  
For that matter, Peter actually thought he would make a darn good sailor, but that was not what he wanted to discuss. “Patrick,” he said, “why are we doing this?”  
  
“Because it's toasty in here, the whiskey's good, and I'm in love with that woman. What more reason could we need?”  
  
“Not that,” Peter said. “I mean... I mean this business with Vantas. Diamante. Duccio and Bachman. That whole horrible crew.”  
  
Sloan took a sip of his drink. “I thought we've been over this, Pete.”  
  
“I know,” Peter said, his eyes squeezed tight. “I just still have... doubts. I just still have doubts about it.”  
  
Sloan swiveled on his stool to face Peter directly. “You're not welching on me, are you?”  
  
“No,” Peter said. “Of course not. I just don't know if we are doing the right thing.” He turned to look Sloan in the eye. “Those bills you've been tossing around. You took Diamante's money. That's mob money, isn't it?”  
  
“Well, he is a mobster. Can't imagine it came from the policeman's union.”  
  
“But that's just my point! What happened to abiding the law? Didn't we become detectives to help the innocent and fight crime? At least, I certainly did.” He turned back to his drink. “When did joining forces in a mob war become part of the job description? This won't end organized crime. It will just make it stronger, more ruthless.”   
He glanced at Sloan and looked away again. “You do realize that, of course.”  
  
“Pete,” Sloan said, putting a hand on Peter's shoulder. “Come on, Pete, I know this is bad but I need you in this, all right? I need backup I can trust. And the only ones I'd trust with my life are you two. You and Dick both.”  
  
Peter wouldn't look at him. “I know we don't always see eye to eye, Patrick--”  
  
“Of course we don't,” Patrick interrupted. “I'd need a stepstool to make eyes at your chin.”  
  
Peter ignored him. “--but now more than ever I really question what you're doing. Your methods have returned results before so I try not to fuss, but this is so far outside what I can handle. This isn't bending the law, Patrick. You're actively and violently breaking it.”  
  
“Listen, Pete. I know that.” He took a drink. “Of course I know that. You don't think I didn't know that, do you? Because I do.”  
  
“Then why is this even an option?”  
  
“Because,” Sloan said, “if you wanna take down Lucifer, sometimes you gotta be friends with Beelzebub.”  
  
Peter looked at Sloan quizzically.  
  
“It's an expression.”  
  
“I've never heard it.”  
  
Sloan waved his hand impatiently. “People have died, Peter. Clients of mine. Lovely people, you know? It all started with a lovely young woman, couldn't be prettier, who asked me to find her daughter's father. Routine, right? Done it a million times before. Except three days into the case, she goes on a date with some other gentleman and the two of them go missing. I told you about this one, remember? Found the two of them in a rooftop garden, lying in a pool of their own blood. Pretty soon after that, every client I had ended up dead. Little immigrant girl on the run from her ex-boyfriend?” He slammed his hand down on the counter. “Dead. Big, friendly gentleman who wanted a background check on his new partner? Dead. Charming old baker woman who was just looking for her son? Dead, dead, dead, they're all dead!” He punctuated with more slams. “Every last person who came to me for help in the last half a year has wound up dead or missing or both, and the only people on the planet who can help us figure out who the hell is responsible just happen to go by several fake names and live in sewers and rob banks. Now I don't like the way this smells either, not one inch, but right now, I can't afford to be picky. So we'll scratch their back, and they'll scratch ours. It's how these guys work.” He put his hand on Peter's arm and looked him in the eye. “You help me out with this, and I'll never ask you to do anything this hairy again. But right now, I need to know you're going to back me up.”  
  
Peter met Sloan's gaze for a few moments, then looked at his shoes for a while. He did not like this situation one bit. Helping gangsters raid a rival mob's headquarters was not his idea of justice. It was not his idea of anything. The only ideas he had were to stay as far away from those repulsive gentlemen until he could put them in handcuffs.  
  
“These men are dangerous, Patrick,” he said.  
  
“That's why I can't do this alone.”  
  
Peter squirmed in his seat. Even if he didn't like it, he couldn't deny that things had changed. A lot of people had died already, and if they could not put the person responsible behind bars, he could not tell if anyone was safe. Could it be him? Patrick or Richard? What about Richard's family? Innocent people were in harms way, and even if he was unsure about it, he still wanted to protect the innocent, didn't he? He chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully.  
  
“You are certain that this is the only way?” he asked Sloan after a long silence.  
  
“If there's another way, believe me, I sure as hell would've taken it weeks ago.”  
  
Peter clenched his eyes shut, then opened them to meet Sloan's again. “Then I'll do it.”  
  
Sloan's face lit up. “I've never been happier. Let's celebrate while we still can, pal. Maybe Henrietta can bring that nervous broad down to join us." He nudged his elbow into the taller man's ribs. "Night's still young, Pete. Maybe she'll fall in love. Henny!” he shouted toward the staircase across the room. “Let's have us another round, huh?”


	9. The Drinking of the Gains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boxcars and Deuce drink too much and think too much.

“Another round, Hank m'boy!” Clinton Duccio cried out in a cracking, slurred countertenor.

“Ain't you had enough, Deuce?” Henrich Bachman rumbled as softly as possible, a feat not easy for the gargantuan musclepile who shared a room with the significantly (and alarmingly) smaller mobster who was teetering on the edge of the bed opposite him in the tiny hotel room the two had shared over the past uncountable years – all for the conveniently low monthly price of not breaking the proprietor's legs.

Duccio leaned toward him – the movement of which worried Bachman, who was concerned for the diminutive fellows balance – waggled a finger very loosely and cracked a lopsided grin. “Now listen here, Henry--”

“Heinrich,” Bachman corrected.

“Boxcars,” Clint continued, still whipping his finger up and down. “Who knows what's in store for tomorrow? Rhetorical question, see. I don't know, and neither do you know, but all's I do know is that we don't gotta be up early'n the mornin' nor d'we gotta be alert by midafternoon.” He hiccuped. “See the way I sees it is I dont gotta worry bout nothin til tomorrow night, and maybe not even after t'morrow night so what should really be keeping us from throwing back a couple bottles we got stashed away and drinkin' to the good ol' days? Nothin', Hankie-bob. Nothin' what's all ever.”

“Deuce, you've had a couple bottles already,” Boxcars said nervously.

“What's another bottle gonna do, ol' pal?” Deuce squeaked happily. “Nothin' what's all ever.” He stopped for a moment. “I'm sayin' that right, right? What's all ever?”

For the record, the word he was looking for was “whatsoever,” but Boxcars figured it wasn't worth the energy. “Wouldn't know, Deuce. You taught me this stuff, 'member?” Boxcars reached under the bed and pulled out another bottle – small label Irish whiskey, decades old, from the cache that they'd been literally and figuratively sleeping on for years – and tossed it Deuceward.

Despite his deep inebriation, Deuce caught it deftly and, using a pocket knife, yanked out the stopper with the surgical precision of a man whose hands have never involuntarily shaken once in his life. “Darn tootin' I did! Why, when I found you all huddled up in that hobo train, you didn't speak a word of this business! Thanks for the bottle, by the way.” He took a healthy swig and sighed in drunken contentment. “Ahhhhhhhhhhh! Ill-gotten liquor is the best kind of liquor, I always say!”

Deuce had never said any of those words in that order before, but Boxcars decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, as it wasn't completely out of his character. Besides, Heinrich Bachman had more pressing concerns on his mind.

“Deuce,” he began with a voice both low and slow, “why do you think we're doing this?”

“Because we could die tomorrow, Boxyboy!” Duccio took another deep draft, then sighed and looked quite gravely into Bachman's eyes. “We could die tomorrow.”

“That's what I mean, Clint,” Bachman said. “Not the booze. This business with tomorrow. It don't make no sense.”

“How do you figure?” Clint asked, though Bachman knew Clint knew full well exactly how Bachman figured.

“Well, I just don't get why, after all these years, we're making a move on the Felt.”

“We've made plenty of moves on the Felt, Hank. We don't get along with those guys all that well, remember?”

Bachman exhaled slowly, gathering his thoughts, making a noise that sounded an awful lot like a thousand tons of gravel rushing down a rusty tin chute. “But I think we almost do, right? Like we've got an agreement?”

Clint stiffened and looked away. “Aw hell, Hank, not this shit again.”

Bachman tried to fix Clint in his stare. “We got an agreement with those guys, don't we.”

Clint scratched at his arms and neck. “It don't bother thinkin' 'bout, Hank.”

“Clint.”

Deuce shifted again and looked up at him. “Yeah, I think we probably do, Hank. You probably also figured out how it's been more'n ten years since we've really gotten in a big scale scuffle with those cats.”

Bachman cracked his knuckles and looked out of the window “Know why?”

“Well I suspect it mighta had something to do with that murder that happened around the Manor round that time. I'm thinkin' that Jack didn't want the fuzz or the Felt comin' around sniffin' over here thinkin' we'd done it. So he probably set the record straight and agreed to disagree.”

Bachman thumped his fingers sonorously on his rotund abdomen for a few moments, mulling this over. The two were silent for a good long while.

“So then,” Bachman continued, finally getting to the itching root of his issues. “Why are we breaking things now?”

“Aw fer crissakes, Hank,” Deuce cried, throwing the half-empty bottle out of the window. “I don't know, all right? I don't know. You don't know. Figure only Jack or Droog or both or none know. I don't know. But we didn't get this far by asking questions, now did we, pal?” He got up on his knees and waddled on down the bed to face Bachman head on. “Look, if we're gonna die, we're gonna die and it ain't none of our business. But I'll be damned if I'm gonna get hit or dragged in or put on the rack or tied up or put on the screws just because I asked what I shouldn't have and know a little too much, and I'll be a son of a bitch if the fella I spent the important part of my whole goddamn life with and practically raised is gonna do the same all right? Now just forget it all, all right? All right?”

The two stared at each other, terrified out of their minds, knowing exactly what the other was thinking. Boxcars finally relented.

“'Nother bottle?”

“Yeah Hank. You're a saint.”

 

 


	10. The Telling of the Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the truth is not told. "Ace" Dick Dunn eats with his family.

“Aw, Windy, you're a saint,” Ace Dunn sighed, leaning back in his chair and patting his considerable paunch with unprecedented contentment. “That was delicious.”

Winnifred Dunn giggled demurely. “All I did was cook it, sweetpea. You, Mister High Roller,” she continued, slapping Ace lightly in the arm, “are the one that picked out the best cut of meat I've ever had the pleasure to work with. Where did you even get something like that?”

“There's this little grocery deep downtown run by a fellow named Makara. Did some work for him couple years back. Figured if anyone knew toast from roast, it'd be him.”

“I hope you didn't have to give up too much for it!”

Ace winced. “He gave me a discount.” The meat had actually been ludicrously expensive. After all, Makara was running a business here. But she didn't need to know where the extra money had come from. “I helped him out, so he helped me. Besides, can't a man treat his family right?”

The small boy seated next to him piped up. “What'd you help him with, Pop?”

Ace looked down at his son, Hearst. Ace was by no means a tall man, but he still had to look down a ways to look the boy in the eyes. Hearst was extremely small for his age, and so even at the age of eight, he was only barely able to sit at the dinner table without a booster. “Y'see kiddo, there were these big ugly bullies who wanted him to give them money.”

“What did he buy from them?”

“Nothing, son. These bullies wanted money they didn't earn. And Makara, see, he ain't exactly a big strong guy like me. So he calls me up, has me put the boots to 'em, see?”

Hearst stared up at his father, not fully understanding.

Sensing his son's confusion, Ace clarified. “These guys picked on someone who they knew couldn't fight back. So I fought back for him.”

The lightbulb switched on for the boy, and he gasped in admiration. “Wow, Pop! You fought off the bullies for him?”

Ace laughed and tousled his son's hair. “I sure did, Son.”

Hearst nodded over and over, turning a decision around in his mind. “Then that's what I wanna do too, Pop! When I grow up, I wanna help get rid of bullies, just like you!”

Ace tried not to frown. The boy had such a heart, and Ace knew that he wanted to help people. He did truly want to get rid of bullies and badguys, and he'd always loved hearing about what his pop did for a living. And until recently, Ace wouldn't have had a problem with his boy following in his footsteps.

“Now listen, sonny boy,” he said, his hand on Hearst's shoulder and his voice low. “That's real noble of you. And if that's what you wanna do, then I'll make sure you can do it. But it can be dangerous, kiddo. It will be dangerous. And I know your mother gets worried whenever I set foot out that door. And so I want you to think about your mother. And if you get married, you'll have to think about your family too. So I want you to think long and hard about this. For years. Decide if that's really what you wanna do. There's a lot of great ways you can make the world a better place.” He patted his son on the back and sighed. “But,” he then said, switching to a smile, “If that's what you wanna do, then I'm gonna make sure you're the best in the world. I've been settin' aside a college fund so you can get good and smart, like I know you already are, so that you can know when someone's tellin' you the truth and when someone's lyin' to you. And I'm gonna teach you how to fight. Because when push comes to shove, sometimes the best thing to do is push and shove back. And if bad guys won't pull punches, then neither should you. How does that sound.”

The look on Hearst's face was one of unbridled joy. “Gee! You really mean it, Pop?”

Ace nudged his son affectionately in the snout. “I sure do, kiddo.”

Winnifred put one hand on each of their arms, a wide smile on her face and tears in her eyes. “My big, strong boys,” she said softly, the waver in her voice betraying the slightest hint of sadness.

Ace was not an imaginative man, but he knew his wife well enough to understand why she'd be sad to see her son follow in his father's footsteps. How much sadder would she be if she knew what he planned to do tomorrow? No. Better not to tell her. And best not to tell the boy. If he died, it would just look like he'd gotten killed doing the right thing.

As long as neither of them knew what he was doing, they didn't have to know why. Ace didn't want to be thrust in a gang war. But he had to protect Peter. And dammit, he had to protect Patrick too.

“You grow up big and strong to protect your mother and me, you got that little buddy?” Ace asked his son.

His son nodded vigorously, and the family rose from the table.

“And most of all,” Ace continued, “you make sure you take care of yourself. You can be a hero, big guy. Don't forget it. Promise you won't forget it?”

“I promise!” Hearst squeaked, full of pride.

“Then after we clean up,” Ace said, holding his family in a tight embrace, “the first thing I'll teach you how to keep yourself loose and not hurt yourself. Then we start with the ol' Jab-Cross!”


	11. The Tying of the Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How does the evening conclude for all of our players? How do Patrick Sloan, Peter Inesco, Ace Dick Dunn, Jack Noir, Clint Duccio, Hank Bachman, and Paolo Diamante spend their time?  
> Wait. Who was that last one?  
> Paolo Diamante?  
> What has he been up to, I wonder?

And so the last pleasant night passed for all of them.

***  
Richard Dunn and his wife tucked their son in and wished him a heartfelt goodnight before retreating to their own bedroom. He made love to her as if it were the last night of his life. She made love to him as if nothing else in the world mattered. They both could not imagine any differently.

***  
Henrietta Donnelly took Patrick Sloan and Peter Inesco upstairs to the boarders' room to meet Nadine Beaumont and to partake in some complimentary libations. The four drank well and became quite close quite quickly, and it wasn't long before they collapsed on the floor, laughing and singing and talking as though enraptured. Henrietta and Patrick said a great many things to each other they would never have said when sober. Nadine and Peter said a great many things to each other they would never have said in English. And though Henrietta and Patrick were off in a small little world and did not know more than seven words of French between them, they completely understood everything their taller, less talkative friends were saying.

***  
Clinton Duccio and Heinrich Bachman depleted their stash of beautifully dark Irish whiskey over the course of the evening, and when Hank caught up to Clint's level of intoxication, his worry was overtaken and he began to laugh as merrily as his partner in crime. They sang songs that each other knew by heart, they swapped stories that each other could have told in their sleep, and they celebrated a friendship that, if not lifelong, had lasted for the only parts of their lives that mattered. There wasn't anyone else they'd have wanted to share that night with

***

Jack Vantas listened carefully, hanging off of every word, as his adopted son read The Art of War to him. After a while, Karkat began to nod off, so Jack gently took the book from Karkat's hands, closed it, laid it respectfully on the bedside table, and quietly took his leave from the boy's room. He went back to his study and pulled a paper and pen out from his desk. Using a ruler to carefully space out his writing, and double checking each word to make sure he hadn't misplaced any of the letters, he wrote a short letter of explanation to the child. He used his son's birth name, which he regretted taking from him, and he used his own birth name, which he had spent a lifetime working to erase. The note was placed in an envelope, along with Karkat's social security card, original birth certificate, and certificate of adoption. He sealed this and placed it on his desk, along with two other envelopes, empty, expectantly awaiting the papers that Molly Painter would bring in the morning. The first would hold the deeds to his house, his casinos, his office tower, and the hotels and properties he owned, both fine and questionable. The second would hold his last will and testament. Each of these envelopes was addressed to his son.

***  
Aradia Diamante couldn't help but feel that her house was quiet. Too quiet. Quieter than normal, and it was always deathly quiet. She didn't know why it seemed so glacially still. She was quite accustomed to so few people being inside. When the help went home for the evening, only three people ever remained in Diamond Estate. She went up to the second and inquired about the third.

  
“Arthour, where is Father?” she asked politely. A lady does not treat her butler as an inferior, her father always told her. The hierarchy is implied, and anyone who feels they must treat a servant like dirt was worth little more than such.

The butler – stately, composed, always the picture of humble grace – bowed to the young lady as he replied. “Your father, it seems, is putting together his bags for a business trip. He wished not to be disturbed, Miss Diamante.”

A puzzled frown spread on Aradia's face. “I thought you always packed Father's bags.”

“Ordinarily, yes, Miss Diamante. But tonight he requested solitude and the freedom to serve himself.”

The girl tapped a finger thoughtfully on her cheek. “Where is he doing this?”

“The master bedroom, Miss Diamante.”

“That will be all, Arthour.”

“As you wish, Miss Diamante.”

Aradia and Arthour both respectfully turned on their heels and departed in opposite directions.

She strode down the hallway, her quick pace not hindering her from taking detailed notice of everything in the corridor: the ramshead ornaments, the pictures of her father, Mr. Vantas, Mr. Duccio and Mr. Bachman. Paintings, portraits, plants, polished periphery. She was a natural when it came to observation, and she refused to let anything slip from her keen gaze. Even the hallways she had walked for countless hours, she preferred to view as if for the first time. Archeology was the study of things that were everyday objects, and as a burgeoning archeologist herself, she knew the value inherent in the mundane. She wondered if that nice detective her father had interviewed looked at things the same way she did. She hoped so. She really liked his hat.

When she reached her father's bedroom suite, she noticed the door was left one-quarter open. Odd, for her father. He was a very private man, and when he requested not to be disturbed, the door was often locked with all seven deadbolts.

“Aradia, sweetie,” her father's clear baritone rang from behind the door. “Come in, come in.”

She slowly opened the door and found her father, dressed in his fifth best suit and facing away from the door, packing a gleaming leather suitcase which sat on the bed next to two other cases of varying size, of which one looked strikingly like it contained a cello.

“Am I bothering you?” she asked, quietly.

“Not at all, my dear, not at all,” her father said. “In fact, I was going to have Arthour send for you. I had something I wanted to discuss.”

Aradia felt the slightest bit woozy, and found she had the urge to stretch her right arm. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“On a business trip.” He responded.

And then he turned around and looked her in the eyes before speaking.

“Would you like to come along?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in two days! It's a winter holiday miracle! This is the last chapter of our little Act II. Find out what happens next in... **The End of a Legitimate Businessman**!
> 
> Merry Christmas, you filthy animals.  
> Don't say I never did anything for you.


End file.
